Should I Write?
by Harriate Slate-Res-Hari-Agnew
Summary: In his distress at the absence of Jane at Thornfeild, what will he find, and who will he strive to visit at Gateshead? And what will the consequences of his actions be?
1. Chapter 1

_Should I write, maybe I should, yes I will, where is my pen? And paper. Where did I put that paper? Where the deuce is that paper? _Edward Fairfax Rochester rang the bell, and when he heard no hurrying footsteps, he ran again, and again, calling Mrs Fairfax to his side.

"Sir?" she enquired, ready to do whatever her master pleased.

"Have you heard from Miss Eyre," he demanded of her. She replied in the negative, and added:

"Do you know when she will be back, sir?" she asked, cautiously at his frantic, urgent, annoyed manner.

"Of course I don't know when she is coming back," he replied, the inexplicable annoyance rising._ How would I know when she is coming back? _

"She should have been back three weeks since!" _she should know when Jane's coming back, it is her business._ "Where is Adèle?" he asked of his housekeeper.

"Playing with Sophie," was old Dame Fairfax's reply. "It is because of her that I enquired after the girl." Mr Rochester walked out of the room, dismissing Mrs. Fairfax, and climbed down the stairs into the garden. The fields stretching out in front of him were that hay yellow colour associated with the harvest. He strolled down the lawn and towards the stables. There he found his horse, Mesrour, ready to be ridden.

Now that this was confirmed, he walked up the lawn, up the stairs, and into his room. Well, he intended to do this, but something distracted him. There was the door to the schoolroom. It was closed, and he knew the room to be empty. There was no use for a schoolroom in the absence of Jane. He stretched out his arm, and grasped the handle, slowly turning it round so as not to be heard.

The room was cold, organised, lifeless. There was nothing in there to attract him, and he turned to leave. He would have completed the action, if Pilot had not ran in and knocked over a small table, supporting a neat pile of papers. Mr Rochester stooped to pick them up, roughly tapping then against the ground to attempt to maintain the shape. In his hurry to do this, a loose sheet of the paper slipped out from the pack. He carefully placed the messy pile of paper on the table, which he had placed in its original position.

The paper was of a rough cardboard, which he remarked at. Did she really need to use this, did he not have a full supply of paper. On it there was a portrait. Simple, and of chalk. And there was Jane. His Jane. His wonderful, beautiful, enchanting Jane. His picture (for he would not sacrifice it to anyone else) was captioned: 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain'. He wondered why this was written, he would cut it off, to be sure. He carefully folded up the cardboard and slipped it into his pocket. Now he had a reason to stay in the room, so he closed the door and strode to the desk. There was very little on the desk, just some odd scraps of paper, written in Adèle's to-be-elegant hand.

Next he opened a draw, containing half a dozen simple, but elegant, pens. _Even her pens reflect her character_, he thought to himself. Closing the draw, he opened the second, seeing in it a sheet of light, translucent paper. He removed it, seeing underneath a smooth piece of Ivory, painted over with strong, clear tints, forming a face he new too well. This picture was captioned 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.' He threw this down back into the draw, and to his anger, it split down the middle.

"What the deuce is to do now?" he cried, hoping that nobody had heard. He carefully put the two slats of ivory on the lower sheet of protective paper, for that indeed is what it was, and placed the second above it. He then hastily closed the draw and left the room, hurrying to his own. He then quickly changed into his riding clothes, and retired to the drawing room.

"What do you mean you are leaving?" pouted Miss Ingram, an indignant scowl over her face. He had hardly spoken to her in the last three weeks, since the Governess had left. He did not answer. He had tried to explain to her that he had business in town, but she would not hear it. What he didn't tell her was that he had to distract himself from thoughts to the picture tucked in his pocket, and its subject.

When he reached the crossroads, he stopped, faced with a decision he didn't like to make. One road would take him to London, and the second to Gateshead. He headed towards Millcote, cursing his love. He travelled the country roads, imagining the large house, the ill lady, the cousins, and the visitor.


	2. Chapter 2

Should I write chapter 2

"Excuse me," he asked of the servant, "but is there a Gateshead Hall around here?" standing in the small, crowded inn.

"Yes'ir," he said, "it's not far down th'hill. But I don't think you really want to go there. It's a bit gloomy."

"Can't be worse than where I've come from." Edward Fairfax Rochester admitted.

"If you insist, sir." Mr Rochester walked out of the inn, and climbed onto his horse, and instantly started galloping down the hill, wishing he could be on this horse, riding down Hay Lane, getting distracted by the pixie at the side of the road.

Then he had something a lot more substantial distracting him. A great house, almost as big as Thornfeild, surrounded by lawns and woods. A house that should have been happy, but wasn't, somehow. It was, as the servant had said, gloomy. Like the illness of a proprietor had affected it somehow. He then trotted down the hill, and up to the gate.

"Good morning." A cheerful voice said from just behind him. Turning the horse round, he saw a matronly, but quite young, woman, standing behind him, a child in her arms. "Do you wish to see somebody?" she questioned, innocently, stroking the infants head.

"Yes," Mr Rochester replied, "is a- a Miss Eyre of residence here?" he questioned, cautiously. The woman replied that she was, but was walking in the grounds with a Miss Georgiana Reede, and nobody could be sure when they were to get back. Mr Rochester said that he would not wait until the two young ladies returned, and if the lady would not trouble Miss Jane with his presence, he would be much obliged. The woman said that that would not be disagreeable with her, and made her excuses to leave. She didn't like Mr. Rochester one bit, and was quite happy that Jane was out of the way.

Mr Rochester rode away, and made down the road, before making sure the woman was back in the house, and galloped around the stone walls. At the other side of the house, he found what he was looking for. It was a small, iron gate, obviously only meant for a gardener, and he tethered Mesrour to one of the bars. Forcing the gate open, he gained access to the park, and waked round the edges of the wall, sheltered from sight by the low hanging ivy. _How reckless he was being!_ He liked it, it made him feel young, as though he deserved Jane, that she wasn't, he dreaded the thought, to pure, to good, to moral to accept him. She loved him, of that he had no doubt. And he hoped she felt jealousy or him, though he doubted she would recognise the sensation. Her, with her good heart, who could be judged by God, and still be the purest. Her, with her heart marred by no scratches, could she take it upon herself to accept a devil to her soul. And would he let her? Of that there could be no question. She would accept him, and he would let her, but he must find her first.

Walking around the park, Mr Rochester examined the stone walls, noticing how free they felt. This family were in a bad way, it was undeniable. But they did not have the secrets of Thornfeild. No ghostly, haunting figures, mad to the world. No hidden laughs, murder attempts. He was distant in his musings, when he heard voices, whisperings, evidence of people. Hiding under the branches of a nearby tree, a weeping willow growing near the wall, he watched as the two young ladies wandered around the park. One was well grown, and would often be considered pretty. But his eyes were fixed on the second. So fixed that, when the ladies strolled through the branches into the shelter of the tree, he did not notice. He was hidden in the deep shadow of the wall, and thought that the young ladies could pass through the branches without being noticed. But that would only be teasing. To see the girl, to hear her speak, that would be torment. That was not to be wanted.

"I apologise, Miss." He said, in a low voice, removing his hat, "But I heard of the misfortune and wished to pay my respects to your late mother, we were friends many long years ago." Rochester said to Jane.

"She is not the daughter of the sick lady," said the other young lady, evidently Georgiana, who had turned round quickly at his voice. Jane was yet to see him; it was as though she was measuring out, wondering whether he was actually there. "Also, sir, you are trespassing, and have no right to be here, if you were really here to visit, you would not be here, on the other side of the garden."

"I apologise for my trespassing." Mr Rochester said, with feigned solemnity. He was waiting to see Jane, who still hadn't turned round. She now must be sure it was him, so why was she examining her shoes so closely. "I will go now, Miss Reede, Miss- Miss-" he pondered what to call her, "Jane." Miss Reede froze, and Jane raised her eyes to his. Her cheeks were so very white, her eyes almost unreadable. But he understood. She was scared, confused, admiring. He nodded to the spoilt Reede girl, and shook Jane's hand, looking with meaning at her eyes, but her eyes were once again on the ground, and she did not see his expression. He walked off, hurried, and he saw Miss Reede gesturing for Jane to follow her up the path to the house, but Jane did not follow. She was looking after her master, who was round the corner, and was looking after her. But she made no movement to go after him. Not for a long time did anybody move. But Miss Reede was impatient. She huffed, shuffled her feet, but did not say a word. Then Jane moved, she hurried round the corner, her head was bowed, and did not see her master watch her, but he followed, and Reede, seeing him, chased after. He was just close enough to see her run out of the small gate, and walk straight into Mesrour.

As she fell, he ran, and knelt down by her unconscious body. The horse had bucked, and ran off from the house. But he didn't care, not about the horse, or the scoffing Miss Reede, he only cared for Miss Eyre.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Jane POV, I suppose it could only be expected, considering the entire umpteenth many words in Jane Eyre matched the trend. Enjoy. Oh and sorry this took so long, but my laptop's broken, and it took a lot for me to swallow my pride and come down to the family computer. Lucky I hadn't started this chapter, or it would have taken a lot longer. Sorry all those people who don't like harry potter, but you probably won't realise. I didn't choose to put it there, but you wont realise, will you?**

**Disclaimer: Ooh, me? Charlotte Brontë? I'm flattered and all that, but unfortunately, I'm not charlotte Brontë :'(. Or JKRowling! **

Her head was spinning, she had a pounding headache, and the world was black. She remembered very little of the day recently passed, and none of the hours, which were less than a blur. Just blackness. Less than that, in fact, they were nothingness. She tried opening here eyes, but her lids were heavy, reluctant to move from this comfortable bed. Scanning her mind for what had caused this oblivion, she remembered a little of a walk taken with Miss Georgiana Reede. And then running, she could remember running.

After the running, it was just that odd, ringing nothingness that gave her a headache. When she tried really hard, she could remember- no, that's just the unconsciousness speaking. He wasn't really- he would never…she put the thought out of her mind. It would not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, after all.

Struggling with her earthly body, she carefully eased her eyes open, and saw a man who she vaguely recognised.

"Hello, little friend." He said to her, and she remembered.

"Hello, Mr Lloyd." I said. The man was, of course, very different from the last time I had seen him. Ten years had passed, and the apothecary was back by my bedside. But I recognised him. And he recognised me. Hardly surprising, I had barely even grown since he last saw me.

"Long time since you were last here, I must say," he stated, rather warmly, "but you came back, and you still can't walk!" he laughed.

"What happened?" I asked, slowly, bringing my head up to my pounding headache, which was all that was left of my head.

"So you remember me, and not the horse you walked into an hour since?" he questioned, laughing again. "Well, I can tell you, you ran into a horse, it was twice the size of you, and it didn't like it, so it bucked."

"Taking the gate with it I might add!" Georgiana said, rather coldly, from the doorway. "I'll fine that man for it," she added, "that trespasser." Then she remembered, sat up straight, and attempted to climb out of bed, before an arm held her down. She expected to see Lloyd's arm, but he was sitting on her left, and this was coming from the right side of the bed. She looked at the rounded hand, and carefully, slowly, cautiously, followed up the arm, to the face she knew so well.

The face of her master. She went white, and then red, then bowed her head, in an ashamed manner, and said, in the most shameful voice "I am sorry master." So quiet that he could barely hear, and hoped that anybody else could, other than him, at all. She then looked back up, to Georgiana, who was scowling at Mr Rochester, to Mr Rochester, who was scowling back.

"I assume you came to tell me that I no longer have a job?" she muttered, slipping further under the sheets as all hope was lost.

"No," he answered, "I came to ponder why you have not yet returned to your post." And then he added, "I wonder at you, I would think you valued your education of Adèle, and your converse with me, more highly." But this was said in so quieter a voice that no-one but she heard. Then he turned to Mr. Lloyd and demanded "She will sleep tonight, and then take a carriage back tomorrow to my place of residence, Thornfeild, where she works and lives." She saw Mr. Lloyd open his mouth to make an objection, but Mr. Rochester insisted, and he sensed the nonsense in disagreeing with a man so sure of every word he spoke.

**Sorry it's quite short, but at least you know that Jane's okay, for now.** **Please review, I do truly long to know if this is interesting you. And then you can chastise me for writing such very short, dull chapters.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Miss Ingram?" Rochester nudged the door open, one hand on the door frame, and the second at the side of his body, carefully rubbing the thin cardboard in his breaches pocket. He was oh so tempted to pull it out, to follow the lines of her face, so faithful to the truth. He was tempted to tear it from top to bottom. It was cruel, to carry around such a replica, and know that the original was so far out of reach. Would he ever see her again? Would she dare to return to the house where her master, where _he_, had almost disgraced her. Had watched her sleep so intently, had poured water down her throat. Had she ever loved him, something he had been so sure about before, had he been deluding himself in his attempt to delude her?

He could kick himself, and would have done so if something hadn't brought him out of his reverie. It was her voice, her accursed voice, calling out for him, and he suspected she had been doing so for some time. Turning his head to the voice, he saw the face of a woman so unpleasant, but so classically beautiful, and so spiteful, so proud. It was hard not to shiver in disgust. But he did not; instead he walked further into the room, and sat himself down in the chair next to Miss Ingram's.

"Where have you been," she asked, after some rather uncomfortable silence, and as an afterthought "Sir?" Rochester replied by reminding her that he had been in London, on business. "But you did not come from the direction of town, and surely you would have wanted to stay there longer?"

"Well I wanted to see you off, didn't I?" he replied in an alluring, albeit detached, voice. She simpered slightly, and then stood up, making her way to the piano in the corner of the room. She beckoned her over, but he left the room. Why must he act now? Why must he pretend to love someone, when the incentive to do so has left for good?

Before he stepped over the threshold, he poked his head around the door, "You're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?"

"Yes, of coarse," was the cold reply.

He was a hospitable man to his guests for their last night, but when they left for bed at two in the morning, he did not follow them. Instead, he sunk down into the drawing room sofa and let the candles go out, though hr didn't sleep.

Jane set off the afternoon she woke up, and as there was no mention of her master at the house, she put it down to a dream. A good dream, it must be admitted, but a dream all the same. And a cruel one. Starting her journey so late in the day was ridiculous, to be sure, but she needed to get away from a house with so many good memories, and she was not to go in the morning. She would stay half way in the inn; she had the money, and then maybe arrive in the afternoon. And by going early she wouldn't insult anybody, Georgiana was practically pushing her out of the door.

The journey was tedious and the weather warm, and the public coach was far too hot to be comfortable. When they finally reached half way, the evening was pleasantly cool, and the inn not so pleasantly priced. If she were to stay there, she wouldn't have the money to get back to Thornfeild, and she would be stuck in a strange town, in a strange inn, and no way of getting back. She would have to travel through the night, if the coach would allow it.

While most people were departing the coach, she went up to the driver and asked whether he would take her directly on to Thornfeild. "I can pay more, if it is needed," she assured the coachman.

"That wont be necessary, miss, we travel by night often, and nobody will board the coach before midday." Jane thanked him incessantly, and boarded the coach once more, thankful for the cool air that was there instead of the many passengers it before held.

The horses were soon changed, and no sooner they were off, Jane travelling alone in the dark carriage. She felt almost as if she were in the coach-a-bowers, there to be taken from the English countryside to the world of the dead, and the friendly coachman was in fact the Dullahan, and controlling headless horses, though headless himself.

She even imagined, when holding her hand up to the light, it was grey, and cold to the touch, but she was tricking herself. She was just as alive as any of the people she had left behind, now comfortable in the inn's beds, while the servants snatched pennies from their pockets and watches from their wrists.

Snatching a glance out at the night from behind the moth eaten curtains, she vaguely recognised the landscape of Millcote on the horizon, where the sun had long since set, and would sooner rise. She did not know the time, or how long it would take to get from her to Millcote, and from Millcote to Hay. From there she could easily, and would happily, walk.

Then, she fell asleep, and no dreams of babies would wake her. Although regular images of a certain gentleman would regularly swim into her dozing mind.

She woke up to a loud banging on the roof, and opened her eyes to early morning Hay, where she got out and asked the bags to be carried to the porter's house, just outside of the grounds of Thornfeild. Then she would walk, and how did she revel in the familiar scenery.

Mr Rochester didn't sleep. He watched the red embers fade in the fireplace, occasionally glanced at a clock; watch; or random timepiece, every now and then took a sip of the drink at his elbow, and watched as the heat of the fire faded.

Around four, he stood up, and quickly made his way to his chambers. He should sleep, but he wasn't tired. He was thinking of his Jane, and he knew he would be doing so for some time. So instead he changed from the clothes he was wearing last night, and into the ones he would be wearing that morning, after a refreshing sleep that never bothered his depressed ponderings.

Then he quietly made his way to the orchard, the one that he and Jane had walked through the day that she went, or was it the one before?

He could truly be alive here. The summer had been good for his beauty, which was always there but now radiant. But Rochester didn't see any of this beauty.

All he could do was walk around the paths, quite aimless in his routes, faking interests in the insects and flowers. His eyes may stray along the fruit bearing walls, but his mind only saw Miss Eyre.

The said Miss Eyre was not half a mile off. She was strolling down the lane, and soon reached the gate and the old porter's house, soon to find out that the bags had been sent up to the house.

Then she walked up the pavement, and was going to enter Thornfeild, but due to the earliness of the hour (around four o'clock) and the pleasantness of the day, she decided to walk through the orchard.

Rochester was dreaming. He could only be dreaming. And because he was dreaming, there could be no harm in moving over to the subject of the dream, of holding the subject of the dream, of caressing the subject of the dream, and of kissing the subject of the dream.


	5. Chapter 5

**I am _so_ sorry.**

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He was kissing her. _He was kissing her! _HE WAS KISSING HER! And she was kissing back. He _was_ kissing her, and more importantly, she was kissing back! And you know what? She didn't care. What did it matter that he was kissing her… he was kissing her! Not one part of her saw _anything_ wrong with the proceedings.

And then the spell broke, and she was pulling away, and she was pulling away. But he was still kissing her, and she was still kissing him. And then Miss Ingram swam back into her thoughts, and her head was no longer empty. And she was pulling away, and looking down, ashamed at her weakness.

_**Change Veiw**_

He was kissing her! This was actually happening… well, not really. This wasn't Jane Eyre; it was just a cheap imitation. A dream, a spirit of the night. But he was kissing Jane Eyre, and that was all that mattered. The fact that she was standing there, in front of him, looking oh so Jane Eyre, and he was able to kiss her, and she was kissing back.

And he would have her for now. He could do with cheap imitations. It was not like he was going to see the real little elf any time soon. And she was kissing her, and that was all that mattered. Propriety did not matter in this world of slumber, nor religion. Just that Jane was standing in front of him, and was succumbing to her feelings, and his.

But now she was pulling away. Why was she pulling away? She wasn't _allowed_ to pull away. She was his. So why was she pulling away? He wouldn't accept her pulling away. He _would_ kiss her some more, and she _would_ return his sentiments. Ah, that's better, she was kissing back again. But then she was pulling away again. And, once again, he was _very_ confused; so, to hide his confusion, he went to continue kissing her, but she pushed him away. And she looked down at her feet. He stepped closer, but she stepped back. And she opened the gate, and ran out, down the path… and away from the house. Away from him.

_**Change Veiw**_

She was running away! Of coarse she was. He had _kissed_ her!

She stumbled in her haste, and was on the ground, out of breath. And he was at her side within seconds. Rochester held out his hand, and she was pushing herself away. She tried to speak, but she had no voice. She tried to stand up, but her ankle gave way, and she fell into his awaiting arms, her hair loose of its bun, and falling over her flushed cheeks.

"You are a very cruel dream." Rochester exclaimed.

"A dream, sir?" she was confused. What did he mean by 'dream'? She wasn't a dream…

"Yes," Mr Rochester replied, "a dream. You are a dream." Jane shook her head slightly, and he almost dropped her. He led her over to a nearby bench, laid her down and walked over to a thick-trunked tree.

_**Change Veiw**_

This was _not_ good. What had he done? He had kissed her! He would go now. He _had_ to go. He had kissed his ward (possibly daughter)'s governess, and the governess in question was practically a _nun_. He was in trouble. And now he would follow in his youths' footsteps. He would go. He couldn't stay here. Not now, not after she had left. Where to go? He would determine that when he got there.

_**Change Veiw**_

He had spent about a minute by that tree, and then, as Jane watched, he walked off. He strode off towards the house, without a word. She waited, but not for long. About five minutes later, she saw Leah walking towards her. Jane then sat up, and was guided up to the house. In the entrance, she had cause for blushing. Mr Rochester was walking out of the house, dressed for riding. He did not bat an eyelid when she passed, he did not even acknowledge her existence, just walked past as she was led to the library, and placed in _his_ chair; where she was told to stay until the apothecary arrived.

Not an apothecary, but Carter, a surgeon. The same surgeon who had tended to Mister Mason on that terrible, terrible night. But Jane didn't remark on this. She didn't remark on anything. She was far too busy considering the pain that was shooting through her ankle as he tended to it, poking and prodding and squeezing in all the awkward places. Putting her through all kinds of totally unnecessary torture. And then he stood up, and told her to do the same.

She tried, but fell back into her master's chair almost instantly. It hurt, oh how it hurt. Carter's advice was plenty of rest, just sitting in the library, listening.

_**Change Veiw**_

She was there, limping past him, read from her efforts. What had he done? So he just walked past her, as though she wasn't there, and hoped she would follow his example.

Her eyes followed him down the steps, the pavement; and it felt as though the string snapped, and he was bleeding internally. Bet he kept on walking, as did she. He would fetch Carter, and follow the ocean; go where the wind takes him.

It wasn't long before he was at the surgeon's house, nodding to Carter's wife as he removed his hat, and went through to the main room.

"Good Morning, Mason." He greeted his old friend, and brother-in-law; "Where is Carter, do you know?" Mason replied that he was in the parlour, and Rochester quickly went through to the above mentioned chamber.

"Good Morning, Sir," Carter greeted, but Rochester was already explaining the situation of the sprained ankle. But the surgeon knew his client too well.

"What did you do, Rochester?" he asked, making eye contact with him. "I know you did something, there is no point denying it, and it has made her run away."

"Who said she had run away?" defended Rochester; conscious that he was not the only one who could read thoughts in the eyes as if words on paper.

"_Rochester_," Carter cried sternly, but he didn't answer.

"Rochester!" he repeated, "get back up there and apologise!" still no answer, "You are _not_ running away!"

"Go up to the house, have a look at her ankle, that's all you need to do." His was voice was cold, empty of all emotion; but when he was at the door, he added, in a resigned tone, "I will send word when I reach the continent."

"Don't you dare just run away again! Look what happened last time. Look at your daughter!" how did this man always make him feel like an insolent schoolboy? He couldn't help but look down at his feet.

"She's not-" Rochester cut off, "_Help her_!" he walked out of the room, leaving Carter rather frustrated. But he didn't have time to be frustrated, so he packed up everything he could need for a twisted ankle.


	6. Chapter 6

**This chapter is quite short and that, joint with the fact that it took about three months to publish the last one, is why you have two chapters in a day.**

* * *

"Jane?" she was standing there, oh so beautiful, in the doorframe to his room. The fire glinted in her eyes… the fire that he had been gazing into; her eyes glinted in the fire.

"Edward." The name seemed to tumble out of her mouth; she was speaking with such haste. Rochester stood up from the chair that he had pulled beside the fire. He still loved to hear his name spill from her lips, lavishly embroidered in her small, smooth voice. She began to walk, through the oak frame of the door, across the cold floorboards, silken slippers glinting in the half-light.

As she continued to walk, she slowly changed, to become taller. Going from her petit frame, to average height, to tall- almost as tall as him. And her hair, from its' plain bun of brown, to raven black ringlets, her skin darkening, her features shifting; the soft smile, which he attempted to squeeze out at every opportunity, moulded into a flirtatious smirk.

"Edward." The name, slipping off her curled tongue, alluring by definition, worthless to his ears. The eyes were cruel, sharp, uselessly intelligent, with no _real_ character. The gown worn on her slender figure not appropriate for a marital bed. Jewelled slippers trod, lightly, as the fashionable lady, the Blanche once known as his own, began to shift once again. Just as tall, just as classical; with rich, brown hair, and dark, deep blue eyes. How he had once thought of them, now they seemed empty… flat, almost. Clothes just as scandalous, the girl continued to stride across the wooden floor.

"Edward." The heavy German accent flew off Clara's tongue in a silky, luxurious, sickening sweet voice. And still, she walked, oh so slowly… and she dreaded those slippers descent. Continuing to shift and change, the lady grew taller. Rich, dark, chocolate hair tumbled down the almost bare back of the Italian beauty that now stood before his eyes; rich, dark orbs staring into his own dark eyes. Rich, dark orbs? More like empty wholes, staring into an empty soul, just proving to be an excellent mirror to allow repentance to twist and turn in his stomach.

"Edward." The word slipped from her lips, Giacinta's strong Italian accent woven between the letters of the English man's name. As soon as the last syllable had escaped from her lips, the skin around those lips changed. The lips changed. The entire appearance changed. Chalk white skin replaced the olive complexion of the last, and before him was standing the French opera dancer; smooth, white blond curls tumbled down her front, and back; the white dress full, and scandalously short, only half on, ready to fall from Celine's slim frame.

"Edward." The sweet French tone, once naive, whispered the name in a tone that, in its very essence, expressed the knowledge of the world of which it could speak. And once again she began to change, and her form became thicker, her skin darker, her lips thinner, her untamed locks blacker, her eyes bloody and sunken, cackling, elfish laughter darting in them, before the sound even reached her lips. And then it did, and between fresh outbursts of the shrieks, you could hear one word.

"Edward." And still she changed. Her form thinner, her height lessened, her hair was combed, her eyes almost kind, _almost_ sane. The rags she wore around her mended. Mended into a long, white, flowing dress. Still she was laughing, but the laugh was tinkling. And wedding bells could be heard in my ears.

And beside her, beside her stood a man. A man of the same olive complexion, but taller than the girl. He was tall, dark, but certainly not handsome. Rochester stood there, looking at the himself of fourteen years ago. A young man, practically a boy, of no more than one and twenty, no knowledge of the world, as he stood at the alter, looking down at his bride; a bride, who, unbeknownst to him, was almost six years his senior, knew so much of the world, and would cause him torment for the rest of his life.

He stood there, watching his younger self look down at his mad bride, willing him to stop, but knowing it was useless. Knowing that bertha was there to be his torment. And knowing that, by marrying her, he must do so much to repay his sins, and knowing he would take the wrong path. And he stood there, watching his youth fly away backwards. Watching the cause of his sin.

"Edward," and a voice spoke in his ear, "I will marry you." And a voice of purity spoke meaningless words in his ear, and he turned back to the young couple, and saw they had shifted into a single entity. And before him stood a nineteen year old girl, dark brown hair curled into ringlets, but failing to keep in place, as he stared into his eyes. And he stared back, seeing the pale blue eyes, the white-blushed cheek, the lips he had longed to kiss. And as he watched the eyes water, and the glance lower, and heard the sound of hooves cascade against the dry earth road, he stepped back, and watched her fall to the floor. He watched her, chaise and four thundered over the patch of ground. And he turned away, letting the tears fall.

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**yeah, odd chapter, I know, and not very self explanatory. But _that_ is the reason I cut it off here.**

**Please reveiw.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi again. I am trying to publish once every day. With a chapter of a thousand words. So you can punish me when I forget to publish. But my summer holidays are coming up, so I should have plenty of opportunities. I don't really like this chapter, but I hope it meets up to your standards. and has FFNet changed since _last night_? **

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Rochester awoke from his dream, sitting up in the rented bed. He looked around, confused as to the location of his room. Then he remembered. The turmoil of the previous day, and the dream which haunted his thoughts. He only wished he could forget the latter, but the realness of the piece was guaranteed to set itself into his memory.

He hadn't thought of Annabel for years. He had totally blocked her from his conscience. But after the dream, it all came rushing back. The meeting, seeing the girl crossing the street, he was only seven and ten, but instantly knew himself to be in love. He knew from the moment he saw her; and that love was pure, untainted, for he was just as pure, just as untainted. He, that day, knew what love was… but all too soon he would forget it.

But he fought for her. When he looked into her eyes, he saw love. And that, he realised, was what he saw in Jane. In Jane, he saw the pure affection that he had felt once, and never would again. In Jane, he saw Annabel; they were subconscious thoughts, but they were still there, and now was his time to grieve all he had lost.

He had lost Annabel, but he had never felt that loss. He had just blocked her out, and now he was about to do that again. He was about to leave, and yet he _could_ stay. But staying would mean she would leave, but who was to say she _wouldn't_ leave if he did. She would still go, and he would still have to watch her leave him, and put up with the consequences. But this time, he _would_ put up with the consequences, he _would_ watch her leave, and he _would_ continue to bleed. He _would_ remember her. He _would _remember Annabel. And he _would_ move on from his one pure love. Something he had never done. He had never been a good man since that day, but now he was once step closer to his re-birth; one step closer to Jane.

He finally saw what he had been doing wrong all this time. He had always said that Jane would save him, but no mortal being could ever do that. Jane is the end, not the means.

Rochester swung his legs off the bed, and stood up, pulling on his dressing gown. Having a look at the timepiece on the bedside table, he growled at the hour hand, which was resting on the small, roman two. How he cursed his past mistakes.

On a chest at the end of his bed lay the clothes he was to wear for the next stage of his journey. A journey that _should_ be taking him to the Continent. But whether it would, he was unsure.

He wasn't sure if he could go through with it, not now he really understood himself. He wasn't able to leave her. Not now, not ever, and he would be there, by her side, by daybreak. He would show that his affection for her was sincere, and he would not let Annabel's fait befall her.

_**Change Veiw**_

"_Edward," he was standing there, and Jane was walking towards him, but she had no control of her limbs._ Then she woke up. She had had the dream many times, since that night with the fire. But never had that dream meant so much as it did that time. Now that she would never see her master again. He had left, and she would soon be following in his footsteps. He had gone south, to the Continent, and she would go where she could. She would write an advert, and when she could, she would post it. She would leave him. She would go where he could not harm her.

She would go where he couldn't play his twisted mind games, where he couldn't kiss her, and then just leave, just forget about her existence. Somewhere where he couldn't steal her feelings, then flirt with a supercilious match of convenience. She may not own her own heart, but she was still his equal. In fact, she was better than him. She didn't need this insincere affection which he craved. She had a universal father, a man whom he seemed to have shunned.

But Jane was superior to her master in so few points; he could surpass her in so many. And now he was gone. And he would never come back. And neither would she.

Attempting to stand up, Jane grabbed the crutch leaning against the wall beside her bed, and hobbled over to the small writing desk in the corner, lighting the room with a candle stump that was almost out, she began to pen an advertisement to the local paper:

_Young lady seeking place as governess for child under the age of ten and four. Accustomed to teaching, and qualified to instruct in French, geography, English, arithmetic, biology and art, as well as simple pianoforte. _

It was very similar to her first advert, finding a position at Thornfeild, but she had been comfortable at Thornfeild for most of her stay. She just _really_ needed to get away now. And soon. When she got the chance, she would ask one of the servants to post it.

It was just as the sun began to rise, around five o'clock, that hooves could be heard on the gravel outside. Jane wasn't aware of any visitors coming, maybe it was another of her master's 'friends' that had come to be bitten and stabbed by mysterious woman on the third story. She would _not_ miss Grace in her new position.

But Adele… and Mrs. Fairfax, and _Thornfeild_! By leaving, she was giving up so much that she loved, for one kiss… one man. But she didn't have any choice, she had to go, she had to send this advert, and seek a new position. She _would_ have the upper hand. It _would _be on her terms that she left this house. She _would_ say goodbye to her friends, not leave like a ghost in the night.

As she though of leaving, tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked, and they cascaded down her cheeks.

She _would _leave.

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**There you are, chapter seven, hoped you enjoyed. Although you probably didn't. It's pretty rubbish. Please review (Right spelling, YAY!).**


	8. Chapter 8

"Sir!" oh deuce. He had forgotten about that old dame Fairfax. How could he explain his presence after only twenty-four hours away? "You're back?"

"Evidently," Rochester droned, aware that he was being frightfully impolite, but not particularly caring. "How is the household business?"

"Well sir, the accounts are fine, you are a good manager…" on she went, never once mentioning his Jane. When she had finally done, Rochester gave a quick bow, and walked straight out of the open door, where he found Carter approaching the house. In the two hours since he had arrived, Rochester had paced the gardens, looking to see if Jane was, at any time, visible from her bedroom window. She wasn't.

And now Carter was here! Carter, who could enter the sick lady's chamber; Carter, who could tell him how Jane was.

"Rochester!" Carter cried, shock evident on his tones. Rochester glared at him.

"I want you to go in there, see how she is, come out here, and _tell_ me!" Carter walked off without a word, and Rochester leaned against a nearby wall, sighing heavily. He didn't like losing his temper with Carter, it never felt right.

And there he waited, pacing along the path, glaring at any soul who _dared_ to interrupt. It took a while for Carter to come out, or at least it felt like it to Rochester; but at last, out he came, a small smile gracing his features.

"Well, she's a little shaken, to say the least. You gave her quite a fright, kissing her and everything." He looked at Rochester strangely. "You really love her, don't you?"

Rochester didn't bother to grace Carter with his presence any longer. Taking the path at a run, he was soon in the hall, taking the stairs two at a time. But Carter was on his tail, pulling Rochester back as his hand approached the doorknob.

"Would you?" Carter questioned, "Really?"

"I need to put it right!"

"And this is going to help? Storming into her chamber without permission or warning? Do you_ really_ think she needs this? For you to barge in there, and demand for her to accept you?" Rochester knocked on the door, and almost collapsed when her voice answered.

"Mister Carter, sir?"

"He is here," Rochester answered, and audibly heard her gasp.

"S-s-sir?" the stammer was perfectly audible in her voice.

"I am here, Jane."

"Sir," he waited, as she mustered up the courage to say it, to confess. "I was wondering if I could ask for a recommendation?"

"A recommendation?" he was furious. She wanted a _recommendation_?

"Well sir, I believe I have outlived my time in your home, and should leave soon."

_**Change View**_

"Sir-" she watched as her master crossed the threshold to her room, pulling up the covers on her bed, blushing deep red in the position that she had found myself.

"Rochester." The stern voice of Carter came from the doorway, but he only got an obscenity thrown back at him as a reply. His eyes fixed on Jane's face, centring on her eyes, which she immediately dropped to her lap. He was in her room. _He_ was in _her_ room! And then he spoke.

"Sorry," he croaked, his voice cracking. "I am so sorry, and if you could ever forgive me, I would be eternally grateful." Her heart immediately reached out to him, as she watched shame mar his features. But before Jane could reply, he left; walking out of the room, with one last, pained, glance back at her. One thing she was sure about: she would _not_ be getting that recommendation. So she would just have to lie there, waiting until she could walk properly, and pondering if she could ever, _really_, forgive him.

He had done _so many _things wrong, but he was always trying to remedy his mistakes, although not often in the right way. He had kissed her, and then run off, but now he asked for her forgiveness, after he had mysteriously returned. Then he entered her chambers, almost compromising her, just to apologise. And that expression. _That expression! _It _killed_ her, to see him like that. Tired, guilty, all pride lost. All everything lost! He was lost to the world, but she _would _forgive him, just not quite yet. She wasn't ready _quite_ yet.

But she couldn't bare to watch him suffer. But could her opinion of him _really_ mean that much? What did he care about her? She was just his stupid governess.

_His stupid governess that he had kissed just over twenty-four hours ago… _the voice inside her head, which always says things like that, said. The kissing was _obviously_ an accident.

But what about all that 'dreaming' nonsense? If his dreams made him think it was okay to _kiss_ her, then what must his dreams consist of! His past couldn't be _that_ scandalous, surely!

Just before he had left her room, Rochester approached Jane's bedside table, and she now realised that, lying on the table, was a note. Picking it up, she read through the neat lines of writing:

_Recommendation for Jane Eyre:_

_ Miss Eyre is a hard working girl, with intelligence well above most of her age. She is moral and will not leave your…_

And then she stopped. She couldn't read on. Could she really leave, now she had the chance?


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry this took so long. I had laptop difficulties for a few days, and then would not let me publish last night, so I'm publishing now, and will publish another one later. **

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'_Please don't leave, please don't leave!'_ Rochester willed her to stay. He _begged_ her to stay, but he was fully aware that Jane would not hear a word of his pleas. It was her choice, what she did with that slip of paper was _her_ choice. He wanted to make it _her _choice. He wanted to know what _she_ would do. He wanted to know whether she had forgiven him.

"Miss Leah," Fairfax Rochester demanded of the maid. "Could you check on Miss Eyre? I believe she has a letter to dispatch. Do not worry, I will deliver it to Hay, I have business there." He _had_ to know. Was she advertising? _Probably_, the sensible voice in his head reasoned, in its best malicious voice, _she probably despises you! _But he couldn't think that. She _couldn't_ despise him. And whatever she thought of him, he would stay, and live through her hatred. He had to make up for his mistakes. And he was guilty of _so many_ mistakes.

He would stay at Thornfeild, whether she would or not.

_**Change View**_

He had given her the recommendation. She could leave Thornfeild. She _could_ advertise, get a new position. But could she leave everything she had here?

Mr Rochester was here. The man she loved. The man she reverenced. The man who had kissed her, in the orchard, at four o'clock in the morning. A knock sounded at the door, breaking up her straying thoughts.

"Who is it?" if it was sir, she wouldn't let him in; _although_, she didn't the first time. But it was Leah's quiet tones that answered.

"Sorry, miss, for the intrusion, but I was told that you had a letter that needed to be sent." I had a moment to think out my future. I couldn't leave, but staying was _not _an option.

_**Change View**_

_Where was she? Where was Leah? Did she have the letter?_

He willed her to come back empty handed, but he knew the chance was minimal, practically non-existent.

But she _had _kissed back, she had responded to his actions, returned them, she hadn't acted like she hated him. Quite the contrary.

In hindsight, her actions were pretty conclusive. She had stared quite openly, when she dared; he had felt her eyes caress his face during those nights in company; the nights when he had willingly tortured her, trying to get her to confess some degree of affection for him. He loved her, and all he wanted was a return of his sentiments, and he had felt secure of them. He wasn't surprised he had felt that way. He understood there were faults with his appearance. They had been there for as long as he could remember, although his younger years were always quite a blur.

He had never been sure of his life before Annabel. But now, that habitual blur was starting to clear. His younger memories were beginning to become more than second hand recollections. And he remembered Annabel. And then came the interruption. The call that brought his thoughts to the present, leaving them reeling. Then came the soft _'thud,_ _thud, thud'_ that even he, in his dazzled state, told him that someone was at the door.

He cried for the maid at the door to enter, and watched as she entered. He was confused, but his breath still caught in his throat at the sign of the letter in the girl's hand. And as Leah held out her hand, he took the letter in his, and allowed her leave. It was not until she had left the room that he dared his eyes to flick down to the front of the envelope.

He knew who it would be to. The local paper, as was customary in advertisement, but still he looked, and his muddled mind sensed no small amount of confusion, and a good bit of panic, when that wasn't written on the front of the envelope. When Jane's neat hand had written out the address of one 'Mrs. Nasmyth'.

Nasmyth. The name was foreign to Rochester's ears, and he was curious as to who he was sending this letter to. But he couldn't open it, whatever the temptation. It was Jane's private correspondence, although not one he was aware of her partaking in, and he felt he had a right to his curiosity. She was his employee, and he should know where her wages were going. He did pay them, after all. Whether he would for much longer, he couldn't be sure, but the thought of it did nothing to quell his curiosity.

Calling for his housekeeper, he enquired after the name, wondering whether Mrs. Fairfax was acquainted with the man, or wife attached.

"Sorry sir, but I am not aware of the name, and do not believe Miss Eyre has ever sent a letter to anybody under it."

"Does she send many letters to strangers to the household?" he was agitated, and did not try to check his tone, although he understood it to be rather abrupt.

"Oh no, sir," this was _very_ relieving to Rochester's ears. "She very rarely sends letters, and is normally busier in sending things for the _other_ members of the household. She certainly doesn't have numerous acquaintance outside of the household." So who could this blasted letter be to? He _had _to find out, but to avoid the temptation caused, he simply left it on the table, and went to change for riding. He would send the letter, and enquire after the receiver at the first given opportunity.

_**Change View**_

Was it polite to write to someone after _so_ long out of contact? Jane wasn't sure, but it was the only course of action she could contemplate in the given time. She felt sorry for Leah, she had waited an awful long time, but it was necessary. A whole new letter had to be crafted. And at an acquaintance so long forgotten? It must be so very formal in address. I had no choice but to regain the contact of Mrs. Maria Nasmyth.

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**There you go, chapter nine, hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review on my doorstep.**

**-Hari/Tabby**


	10. Chapter 10

**Here you are, Chapter Ten, not my favourite. Rochester's section is mainly just ranting, but I am trying to explain who Annabel is.**

**Share and Enjoy! (Sorry)**

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Maria Nasmyth, née. Temple, placed down the letter with a heavy heart. She had never forgotten young Miss Eyre, just like she had never forgotten Helen Burns. Every one of her students had a character, an existence, a history; every on of her students had a reason to grieve, but some truly needed to get past these obstacles in order to reach their full potential. And Miss Eyre was one of these girls. A young woman with her entire life ahead of her, who had sought a companion's assistance, after so long out of touch.

And Maria grieved for Jane. She had to choose between everything, and nothing. Between mortal man, and God. And however easy that decision should be, Jane Eyre had a heart, a soul, and a mind. Jane Eyre needed to be loved by mortal man, and Maria Nasmyth knew this. Taking up a pen, Mrs. Nasmyth began to write a letter to her old student. The girl who had sought help at a vicar's doorstep. For Jane was, in so many ways, still a girl.

_**Change View**_

What had she done? _Why_ had she sent a letter to her old superintendant? It was a silly thing to do, showing that she hadn't grown up at _all_ since she had first started at school. It showed that she was still the passionate, silly, immature and temperamental girl that had been sent to Lowood, eight or nine years ago.

She was still the orphan with no family or friends to speak of. She was still the girl who had been sent, across one hundred miles of land, to the charity institution, to gain some kind of education. And she had been under the illusion that she had grown up, matured, overcome the faults of her nature. She had been lying to herself for years. And now came the time of acquaintance.

As a child, she had run away from that, which if she had stayed, could only have made her stronger. And now she had the opportunity to run.

She had said that she couldn't run away; not from Thornfeild, not without warning. And she had tricked herself; she had told herself that, by advertising, by going somewhere in particular, that was not what she was doing. But she was still running away from the future that had been selected for her.

But she would live through the consequences that she had to face at her master's house, whatever they were. And if she didn't, there was a reason for that. The reason in question to horrific to consider.

She had sent a letter, requesting advice, to a distant friend, and hoped that the letter hadn't raised anybodies' curiosity. But she would stay, and continue to hope that Mrs. Nasmyth's letter would help her in the future, and possibly help renew an acquaintance long lost.

But the letter had only just been sent. She would have to wait a long while for the reply.

_**Change View**_

Who was Mrs. Nasmyth? How did she know _his_ Jane? How did his Jane know her? He needed to know these things, but was there _really_ any way he could find this out?

He couldn't call Jane to the drawing room. Not with her blasted sprained ankle. What the _deuce_ was he to do? _Regain her confidence, hope she will stay, be patient. _Well, it had worked the last time, until…_ and don't kiss her this time!_ Well, it was worth a try, and if she ever came to forgive him, to trust him once again, then he will have achieved his ultimate object.

But she would never love him, and that was too much to bear, and he couldn't continue his original plan. That was torture to too many people, so he would just have to sit it out, and hope he appeared, to her, to be amiable.

But, still lingering at the back of his mind, there was Annabel. A pretty young girl of seventeen, Annabel Price was the third daughter of a poor farmer, and was often the receiving end of his father's malicious scrutiny. And that was partially the reason young Rochester had gone looking for her. There were lots of other reasons, after he had spoken. She was frightfully bright, and would have been so much more intelligent, if only she had got a respectable education. And he could have provided that education, taking her around the world, experiencing a life with her.

But that was no longer. He was living in the present, and the future was ahead of him, and it would not do to live in the past.

Jane was in a room, somewhere above him, most likely preparing to send off that recommendation. But the fact that she hadn't already, he took that as a good sign. A good sign which made him think that maybe, just maybe, she was ready to forgive him, ready to trust him once more. And how much he wished she could forgive him; trust him. How much he wished he could be handsome, appealing, somewhere near her age. There was no _real_ reason why she should like him at all. The way he acted in their earlier meeting, he was surprised she could even stand to be inn the same room as him, but he only hoped she would get better soon. He needed to be in company with her once again. To sit, from seven 'til nine, in the library, by the fire, and just talk with her. To talk in riddles; watch, as her eyes pondered out what he was saying, and listen to the carefully constructed response.

And then he would watch her blush slightly, as she gazed down at the flowers on the faded rug below her feet. All this, just because she had said something she didn't believe was polite. And how he praised propriety in those moments, and cursed it in all others. Propriety, morality, religion. The concepts that fuelled his Jane's mind. But if those things weren't there, she wouldn't be _his_ Jane; she would just be another mercenary, flirty, but overall plain girl, like so many others.

And _his_ Jane was none of those things.

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**Would you like to leave a review as you leave?**


	11. Chapter 11

**Well then, I can't imagine too many chapters after this one, but maybe a couple. It's going to have to be a modern P&P next, if I ever get my English exam back. Oh well, here you are, Chapter Eleven. Hope you enjoy. Please Enjoy!**

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She loved him. She loved him, oh so much; and she had to talk to him. She had been stuck in her tiny little room for one week. A whole week where she couldn't even get out of bed without being told off, and her leg was _finally_ starting to support her weight! Soon she would be allowed to leave her chamber, to go for a short walk around the gallery. She would be able to leave the room, _at last_! Although whether she could survive having to see her master, she wasn't sure. But if she could survive _not_ seeing him, that was even harder to figure out.

She loved him, and missed him. She felt that she couldn't bear not seeing him for that much longer. How could she survive, knowing that she was within walking distance of Mr. Rochester? It would be so much easier if she could just leave.

But in the mean time, she had a letter to read. The reply to her letter to Mrs. Nasmyth had arrived that morning, and she was preparing herself to read it. When she was sitting up in her bed, she slit the envelope open, and began to read through the short letter that can be found inside.

_Dear Miss Eyre, _

_I was pleased to receive you letter, earlier today, and have made sure to respond to the said correspondence quickly. I was pleased to receive news from you, after so long out of contact. _

_And now, I will attempt to answer the questions posed in your last letter…_

As Jane read on, she realised that her old teacher was basically saying what she, Jane, had already determined to do. That she should stay where she had once been comfortable, and hope she would be comfortable once more; she must be aware how lucky she was to be in such a good situation. And finally, her old companion wished her well, and hoped for a pleasant future.

Nothing was wrong, no offence had been taken, she was fine. She had written a letter, asking for advice, and she hadn't been shunned. Glad was she at the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly, she might just have friends in this world, people she can trust. Outside Thornfeild, who did she know? Maybe a few of the occupants of Lowood, but nobody else. It would be foolish to attempt to leave, with no friends outside these walls; nobody she could really contact. _I am happy that I chose to stay. I am happy that I have forgiven him._

She was happy she had chosen to forgive him? Where had that come from? Had she _really_ forgiven him? To be frank, yes, she had forgiven him. She had forgiven him rather quickly. She had to trust him. She loved him, and her conscience didn't really have any control of the matter.

But it was still there, at the back of her head; there was still the honourable Blanche Ingram. There was still Mr. Rochester's intended, and it was obvious that the kiss was only a mistake. That her master didn't _really_ care if she trusted him or not. The fact that she still trusted him, after the morning in the orchard, that showed how ready she was to succumb to his wants. But she forgave him, and there was no going back now.

Just in time to spare her dwelling on those thoughts, there was a knock on the door, and Carter, the surgeon, entered.

"Well, Miss Eyre, how is the leg today?" he questioned, calmly.

"It is fine, sir," Jane answered, "I was wondering if I would be able to walk soon?"

"Would you like to see if you can walk?" she nodded, and he took the crutch from the wall. Jane shifted off the bed, and took up the stick, allowing it to support her weight as she put he foot on the floor. It held as she eased the crutch away. It was there, by her side, as she hobbled around; she was limping, but the stick wasn't _actually_ doing anything. She could walk!

Looking longingly toward the door, Carter followed her eyes.

"You can go out into the gallery, if you like."

"Thank you." Jane muttered in gratitude. Carefully, she opened the door, and walked straight out into… "Mr Rochester!"

"Car… my- Miss Eyre!" he was standing there, looking totally unaffected, and there she was, in her nightgown, with only a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her cheeks started to blush, and she leant against the doorframe, allowing that to support her weight. Carter followed her through the door, and sent a stern look in the direction of the master of the house.

"Rochester," he demanded, "Fetch Miss Eyre a chair, will you?" and off he went, round the corridor, probably heading towards the gallery. Now she had seen him, and now she was sure that she forgave him, and would trust him with her life. He was, after all, oft to trust her with just as much.

Her master came back, and placed a small wooden chair by the door; Jane readily fell into it, angry that _that_ was when her leg had to give in. what was he doing there, anyway? Waiting outside her door, almost as if he was waiting for Mr Carter. _Had he been that worried about me? _But she couldn't allow herself to think that. He probably just wished Carter to check on something else. Then again, why _was_ Carter employed for her aid? It was not usual for a menial governess to be checked on by a physician. People of learning in medicine were employed for the rich, the upper-class, not for her.

She had been able to work, but the shock of him there, that was no longer. She couldn't even support herself with her own two legs when she saw him. What, Carter was going? Why was Carter going, leaving her alone with Mr Rochester? Where was he going?

"Miss Eyre," customary greetings, almost as though nothing had changed. But that was certainly not true.

"Mr Rochester, sir," polite replies to customary greetings, they are never so awkward in ordinary circumstances.

"You did not advertise." There was no question in his voice, no emotion, just fact.

"No, sir, I am in no position to seek a new situation." She replied, and as an afterthought, added, "I hope that is agreeable to you, sir, to have to support me for any longer?"

"Of coarse it is agreeable to me, Janet." Well then, it seems they were back to informalities. "I would never wish you to leave. I never even managed to explain myself properly."

"Explain yourself," she was confused, what was there to explain, it was an accident; no more, no less. "What do you need to explain?"

"Why I…" he was about to mention it, to say it out loud. It had never been spoken of, and he had knelt down, he was at her level, "Why I… why I kissed you, Jane," and it all seemed so much more real. But still, she did not regret forgiving him, not in the slightest.

"Sir?" she asked, because he was no longer talking, just staring at her, an odd, unidentifiable expression in his eyes.

"Jane…" it was all he said. Just one word, her name, but she didn't hear. She was looking back into his eyes. And she was treading round those oceans of darkness, just as she felt him dive into her soul.

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**There you go, you have read it, Chapter Eleven, please review. Virtual cupcakes. PLEASE. **


	12. Chapter 12

**I do _not_ like this chapter.**

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She was sitting there, right in front of him, and he was allowing her stare into his eyes, as he stared back. And while she skimmed only the surface, he was diving deep into her eyes, and she was letting him.

"Miss Eyre, I…" Damn that idiot Carter! "Sorry, I'll just be-"

"No, don't, I'll just…" and Jane, _my Jane, my Janet_, was getting up, tentatively putting weight on her ankle. But Rochester was in the way, and he would continue to be in the way. He would not go through any more time out of contact with her.

"Oh no, you are staying. You are _not_ running away this time!" her eyes were flashing, and her cheeks were red from their discovery in such a compromising position. He would _not_ let her go. His hand was tightly gripped around her wrist, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

And then he saw himself in her eyes. Right now, he was acting like a monster, a rake. And he was supposed to be making a fresh start. This was not going well.

"Sorry," he let go of her wrist and stepped back; looking down at the floorboards beneath his feet as he walked away.

He couldn't believe what he had done. Why, did he have no self control? _No, of coarse not. I have never had this problem. I have never wanted something that I can't buy with money. Not this bad. Never have I wanted _anything _this bad._

And now she was going to distance herself from him. And that he couldn't stand. He would have to be calm. He would have to be patient. He would invite her into the library at seven o'clock, and he would be patient, he would keep his distance. And he would try and confess his sentiments. He loved her, and he would tell her. But could she ever accept?

_**Change View**_

"What… why… but…?" what had just happened? Why had it happened? She didn't understand, she had sat there, and he had stared at her, and she felt that she had finally understood something about him, and how she felt about him. And she was afraid of herself around him. How easily things could now slip out. She had to be careful.

"Miss Eyre?"

"Mr Carter?" she looked round, and saw the surgeon standing there, looking slightly sheepish at the position he had found them in.

"I am just going to check on my friend, are you okay on your own?" Jane nodded, and he headed in the direction of Mr Rochester's chamber. She grabbed onto her doorframe, and used the wall to guide herself along to the gallery. She was not going to allow an incident with… _him_, to stop her getting her walk. She _needed_ to stretch her legs.

She made her way into the gallery, and hobbled around, revelling in the change of scene, the new air, the view of the corridor that led to her master's room. She was enjoying her walk, when Mrs. Fairfax entered the gallery.

"Miss Eyre, Mr. Rochester requests that you attend Adele to the library, at seven o'clock.

"Alright, thank you Mrs. Fairfax." _I had to see him that night?_ Why did she have to do this? She just _couldn't_.

Jane made her way back to her room, and had a look out of the window, and checked the time on the sundial on the lawn. It was four o'clock, and she had an hour until she needed to be in Mrs. Fairfax's parlour, eating her supper. To do this, she needed to change into something presentable. Hobbling over to her wardrobe, she pulled out a simple black dress, and changed.

When the time came, she limped over to the parlour, and sat down, sipping her tea, but not managing to eat anything. All she could do was drink her tea, and worry about the meeting that night. When supper was finished, Jane changed into her grey silk dress, and went over to the nursery, where Adele was waiting. They waited; attempting to gain the young Parisian's attention by reading a story, but neither of them could concentrate.

Finally, the hour came, and the anticipation was so great that Jane was actually looking forward to their meeting.

_**Change View**_

It was seven o'clock; finally, it was time for Janet to enter the library. And enter she did, along with Adele.

"Ah, Jane,"

"Sir," she still persisted in being so formal, when he could never be like that around her. Gesturing to the chair near the fire, opposite to his, he watched as his love limped toward the fire, and sat down in the chair. It was a small armchair, and was probably the more comfortable than she was used to. But he would soon redeem that.

"And how are you?" he had to make polite conversation, but there was so much on his mind. So much he wanted to say. But he couldn't.

"I-I-I am f-fine." She was stuttering? Why was she stuttering? "Mr.-Mr… Edward-"

"Jane?" how hard was it to say that one word?

"Mr.-" oh no, she is not going to go back to formality.

"Edward." She _would_ call him Edward. "Please, _please_. Just call me Edward, just as I call you Jane."

"Mr.-no, don't interrupt, Mr. Rochester, what… are you drunk?" _she thought I was drunk?_ "Why would I be so informal? I have no right, no justification; nothing can give me the right. You are a married man!"

"How did you know about…?"

"About who, sir?"

"Bertha…"

"You didn't exactly hide the engagement with-" _oh deuce!_ "Who is Bertha?"

He had no choice but to tell her. He couldn't hide her. Not any longer. Jane would somehow find out.

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**See what I mean? I _hate_ dialogue! Please review. **


	13. Chapter 13

**Well, here we are, one again, another chapter. Which I don't like. But, I had to write it.**

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Well, if that was how it was going to go, two could play at that game.

"Edward." He saw as a small blush appeared on her cheeks. Such colour was rare on his elf's pale skin, and he often wondered on all that she had been through at that blasted school of hers. So rare was a smile to grace her features, but surely she could not always have been so quiet, so reserved, and he wished he knew of her true character.

How he wished he truly _knew_ his Jane, rather than a vague and inaccurate copy. A Jane that wasn't Jane. A dampened Jane. A Jane with no life. He wished he could see the Jane of her childhood, but he knew it was impossible.

"Jane," Rochester said, or rather whispered, looking into his love's eyes, just as she shied away from his gaze. "Jane! Look at me."

"Bertha." How infuriating she could be, with such knowledge! And she didn't even know who Bertha was! Just a name, brushed upon by accident in a double understood conversation. And now he must explain. And now his dreams of him and Jane were fallen. Chances of anything were fallen.

"Miss Eyre, will you not see reason?" he knew she was shaking her head, he didn't need to look at the hazel-brown patch of hair to know that. "It will do you no good to know about Bertha. She was a mistake of my past I have regretted it ever since. And I will always regret it."

"So tell me of your mistakes, and by God you will be forgiven."

"But by Him I will not be forgiven, for I do not ask for his forgiveness."

"Sir?"

"I ask for your, and wish it could be given, although I am aware it is a hopeless case." And his dear Jane raised her head, and her hazel eyes met his own.

"But I cannot forgive you until I know what you've done. And as you haven't told me, I cannot know if I am prepared to forgive you."

"Well then, I must tell you." Mr. Rochester concluded. "I must tell you of my history, and then you will leave, and I will likely never see you again."

"And why is that," his Janet questioned, "sir?"

"Because however much I beg you to forgive me, you will not be able to do so," and he saw Jane's eyes signal 'go on'. "You will not forgive me, Janet, because my crime is unforgivable."

"Then you should not ask for my forgiveness, if I would not be capable of granting it. But I am sure it cannot be oh so very bad, sir?"

"But it is 'oh so very bad', and it is of your forgiveness for which I ask, so I will explain my case, and then tell you of my current feelings, and ask for your pity," he whispered, wishing he could lift her head up, for once again it was lowered.

"From a young age, I was allowed too much freedom; I could do anything, and nobody would care. My father was always… distant with me, as was the way. My mother died in childbirth, so no doubt he blamed me for the death. And, just to add to the reasons he could regret me, I was a second son, a waste of space and, more importantly, money. And if there was one thing my father loved, it was money, and possibly my older brother, Rowland. He always liked Rowland. Handsome, he was.

"And because of me, his fortune would have had to be split. And that did not please him. So, what did he decide to do, but pack away the troublesome younger son, sending him away to the distant land of Jamaica, where he was to _form an acquaintance _with a young lady, and old friend of the family. A young lady named Bertha Mason.

A small gasp escaped Jane's lips, and how he wished to engage those lips in a matter more pleasant. But to seduce his ward's governess? To seduce _Jane_? It could not happen. It just wasn't right. Jane was to innocent, and if she were to lose that innocence, she would no longer be Jane, just a young woman with a mind and no fortune. A young fallen woman, like could be seen on the streets of London every day. Jane couldn't become one of those women. He couldn't seduce Jane Eyre.

But what was the alternative? Never seeing her again? Having her eternally hate him? He _needed_ Jane, but did she need him? She wasn't indifferent to him , he could say that for sure; but this was Jane, she had to love him. She had to want him, at least a fraction of the way he longed for her.

But Jane didn't 'want'. Jane kept her emotions bottled up inside, for nothing respectable could come out of loving your employer, there was nothing _moral_. She would do for him 'all that is right'. And this, in no way, could be considered right.

"Sir?" and there she was, my little elf, he face showing heart wrenching concern. He had been sitting there, thinking, for about five minutes, and she was sitting there, watching him, just as he gazed into the flames of the fire. His mind was on things neither of them could come close to comprehending. The innocence was all too prominent in her character. Her life experiences were so minimal. Evidence of this was in her every motive.

"Well Jane, where were we?" the rhetorical question left his lips, as though he was running on auto. "Oh yes, Miss Mason. A beautiful woman; swarthy, elegant and _young_. I was told she was a number of years younger than myself, but they felt it was an appropriate time to begin the lie that is the centre of this horrid business. They had lied about everything in this affair." He knew there was bitterness in his tone, but he did not pretend to hide it. They had hidden so much, and he was loathe to continue to follow in their footsteps. "_I was_ _told_ that her mother was long dead, when she was only locked up in a mental asylum. Also, I wasn't informed of any younger siblings; most specifically, a younger brother. An odd boy he was, not a word of sense in him. Not a word of anything, in fact, I never heard him speak, not in all the time I have known of him. But her elder brother, Mr. Richard Mason, he was independent form his siblings. He took after his father almost completely."

As Rochester attempted to meet Jane's eyes, he saw the white spread across her features.

"Mr. Mason- his sister… your _wife_?" Jane's tone was so incredulous; so vulnerable was the expression in her eyes, it was all Rochester could do not to sweep her up there and the, taking her honour for his own.

"Jane?"

"Excuse me, sir,"

"Edward!"

"Goodbye… Edward, my- my…"

"Your what?" Rochester barely allowed himself to hope as to her full meaning, and attempted to meet her downturned eyes with his own.

"Goodbye, dearest Edward." And so she left, and he could no more move than the inanimate floor beneath his feet could carry him, and he found himself falling into the chair behind him.

Forgiven be damned. She would _not_ leave him! And so he rang the bell, calling Mrs. Fairfax to his side.

"Sir?" the good lady inquired, her head tilted slightly, worry evident in her eyes. He could imagine his visage was rather pale.

"Miss Eyre might be leaving us, well… running away."

"And you want her bags packed?" there was visible sorrow in the old dame's eyes, though her voice did not betray it.

"No, I would like you to delay her for as long as possible," his housekeepers eyes began to light up, "hopefully indefinitely."

"Yes sir, of course sir," but there was still a slight wariness in her tone. And Mrs. Fairfax left; leaving him once more alone. But he wouldn't be alone much longer. He would propose to Janet, and she _would_ accept,, or he wouldn't be sure exactly what to do. He was lost without her, and her last words to him betrayed she might feel the same.

It was already proved that he had no ability to woo her. She was too level headed, to calm, _too pure_.

It was time to stop this ridiculous façade. He would have to show her. Take her up too the gate of Hell, and give her a choice.

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**Delusional Rochester.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Sorry this took so long. And yes, I have now managed to quote Harry Potter two times in this story. Sorry.**

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After about five minutes, Jane emerged from the doorway, prepared to perform her job, despite the pledge made to leave.

"Sir!" she was startled, shocked to come face to face with her master, after last night's declaration.

"Janet," his voice low, practically a whisper, his hand reaching out to grasp his love's. "Your council is required."

"Sir?"

"I require your advice on a subject of my… wife." The word was spat out. It was a finality. Not to be disputed. Factual. She had to follow him. He led her along, through the corridors, and it wasn't long before they found themselves outside his bedroom door.

Jane backed away slightly, her hand, which had somehow made its way into his own, dropping from his grip. His hand, newly free, gripped the handle, and Rochester slipped in. Jane did not follow, and he did not attempt to make her do so. Not thirty seconds later, he was out of the door, and gripping her treacherous hand once again. Hanging over his free arm was a long coat, which would likely reach the floor if worn by her old school master! He removed it from his arms, and hung it over Jane's shoulders, obscuring most of her frame. Underneath, there was a long roll of rope, wrapped loosely over her master's left arm.

Then, he began to walk back in the direction of Jane's room, beckoning for her to follow him. She couldn't say no, she couldn't deny him his whims, however much she knew she should refuse.

Passing her door, Rochester didn't go in, and she thought maybe the confrontation was to happen in the corridor. But when he continued along to the third floor corridor, she hesitated. Hearing the pause in her steps, Rochester turned his head, just as his foot passed over the threshold of the door.

"Jane? Are you scared, Jane?" his eyes did little to hide his amusement, he was laughing at the idea that she, Jane Eyre, could be _scared_! "But of course! I should have known. Your secret fear. Tinged with slight… jealousy?" Jane lowered her eyes, stopping his interpretation of what they hid. Turning round completely, he retraced his steps, finding his way directly in front of her. Jane's mouth opened, her lips moving, trying to deny any chance of envy, but childhood punishment stood strong in her mind, and images of a high stool, a mental prison, rose and haunted her thoughts.

"I must not tell lies." Jane muttered, so low that Rochester could barely hear **(AN: sorry, I did not mean to reference HP)**. Taking her hand, Rochester pulled slightly, removing her feet from the position to which they were planted. She followed him, up the staircase, through the door, to see the tapestry pulled aside, and the key in the lock. Removing his palm from it's contact with her own, Rochester turned the ornate brass key, and a click could be heard in the absolute silence of the attic.

Her master's hand, not removing the key, rose from the door knob, and planted three, determined knocks onto the thick oak of the door. There was a slight scuffling sound, as small cough, and the sound of something being poured out of the window, and the glass of the window almost shattering as wood met wood once more. Then Rochester's hand strayed back down to the handle, and it was turned, and the door swung open, revealing a scene of almost perfect tranquillity. Grace Poole was standing by the window, locking the glass panes, as a pewter bucket was placed on the floor, obviously previously held by water in which to wash with.

Another woman, dressed in a once-white dress, was curled up on the floor, wrapped in a pile of rags, gazing blankly at the ceiling, the only thing that wasn't so… peaceful, was the knife.

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**DFTBA**


	15. Chapter 15

**This chapter is _very_ short, as you can probably tell, and will probably not satisfy you, but I just needed to say that I will not be able to get anything written up at any time during November, and if you don't understand why, you may need a little help, because you are missing out on a lot.**

"Bertha?" the woman, Bertha, slowly moved her head towards the door, and Jane involuntarily shrunk back further into the cloak. Rochester had slipped the hood up shortly before they entered, and she stepped back into the shadows, hoping she could prove to be invisible.

Bertha stood up, clumps of matted, dark hair hanging over her once olive skin. Uncaring of the rips scattered around her skirt, reaching as high, at times, as her knees. She was not smiling, but nor was she frowning. She did not acknowledge Mr. Rochester's presence, just walked past the two visitors, making her way over to the window.

Jane's foot, as it edged forward, caught on a broken floorboard, which was concealed by the shadows in the corner. Bertha, startled, span round, just as Jane's hood slipped off her head. Fire flashed in the mad-woman's eyes, and the governess felt a twist in her stomach, as the fear welled up inside of her.

Mrs. Rochester's footfalls where heavy as she made her way towards Jane, and they informed Fairfax Rochester and Grace as to what was about to happen. On the path to Jane, Bertha was about to make a quick detour, but Grace had snatched up the knife, and Rochester's arm tightened around her arm. She struggled, but there was little she could do as her husband wound an arm around her waist.

Grace, as she started forward to help her master, uttered a single word:

"GO!" and however much Jane did not wish to leave, as much as she wanted to help, she knew that she was utterly useless, and remaining would only make things worse, and so she ran. She hurried down the stairs, as fast as she could move with her slight limp. Clutching the cloak around her, she hurried through the corridors, 'til she reached _his _door. She was going to return the cloak, but taking it off, the warmth that she had become accustomed to left her, and she took it back to her own chamber.

Sitting down on her bed, she reflected on the events of her life since her cousin's death. In this review of her recent happenings, she remembered that there was something she had forgotten. Something big. Something important. Standing up once more, she went over to her writing table, and prepared to write a letter.


	16. Chapter 16

**Right then. Here we go. I probably did not even need the month break. I gave up at NaNoWriMo. After the first week. Sorry.**

**I also had this written. Sorry. I couldn't be bothered to attempt to read my ultra-small handwriting. **

**Erm, I know I do not particularly deserve this, and I feel really awkward asking in the first place, but I am attempting to become a vlogger (you should try it. 'Tis fun), and I would really like it if you just had a look at one of my vlogs. Feels bad now. But there are links on my bio. **

* * *

"Jane?" there was no reply, as his calls travelled through the wood of the door. "Janet?" silence forever reigned supreme. "Miss Eyre?" there was a slight scuffling, and the sound of wind, as though the window had just been opened.

"JANE!" he shouted. No response. "Please, Janet," pleading. He was _pleading_! He knew she might not be in there, but surely she wouldn't have climbed out of the window! She had a limp. She was _Jane Eyre_! She didn't climb out of windows!

But there was still the chance, and if she was trying to run away, he had to stop her. Grabbing the door handle, he twisted, and was rather surprised that it actually opened. Just as the door gave way, the clock struck nine, and Rochester could see directly out of the open window. It looked a bit like a particularly strong gust of wind had swept it open, and the white curtain was flying like a flag, a sharp contrast to the one on the third floor.

"Jane?" he said, or rather whispered, hoping against hope that she hadn't gone. Just as Rochester was beginning to lose hope, there was a slight mumble by the bed, and there she was. Sleeping peacefully, perfectly calm.

Her foot extended slightly, and her toes peeked out from under the thin sheeting. "Jane Eyre. Janet Rochester. Mrs. Rochester. Mrs. Edward Roche-" his voice faltered, just as her eyelids fluttered, and a soft smile formed on her lips.

Walking out of the room, he softly closed the door, and walked down the corridors into his own chambers, in which he fell back onto the bed. He couldn't do this any longer. It was getting ridiculous. He couldn't just watch her. But he was married, and now she knew this, she wouldn't be able to look at him in the future. She wouldn't let herself, and she'd just run, and he couldn't let her.

If she ran, then he'd be alone once more. He needed her.

_**Change View**_

Now she was dreaming of him! This was taking it too far. She was dreaming of being his wife. _She_ was dreaming of being _his_ _wife_! It was not to be born.

She hadn't yet finished the letter, but once she did, she must send it straight away, for it had a long way to go.

Though it was very early, she got up and dressed, afterwards walking over to the little writing table in the corner. The part of the letter she had managed to write the day before was short, despite having taken her the good part of five hours. It felt odd, writing to somebody you have never met, addressing them as uncle, informing them that you are alive, when they have been informed of otherwise.

'_John Eyre, Esq., Madeira,_

'_Mr. Eyre, I believe you were once told, by a Mrs. Reede of Gateshead, that Miss Jane Eyre had perished of typhus at Lowood School. I can now tell you that this is not true. Miss Jane Eyre is currently residing at Thornfeild Hall, and is perfectly well…'_

Here she could not write any more. She found it hard to address him. Could she be familiar? Could she be cold, formal, act as though she had no right to write to him, or was she taking a dreadful liberty by writing to him? Lowood had never educated her in matters such as this, only rules dictated in the Good Book.

Signing off the letter, and sealing it, she got up and left the room. Jane would walk down to Hay herself. She would have to tell Mrs. Fairfax, for she could not face the master.

Once she had left the room, she remembered it was four o'clock in the morning. But so much had happened in the last few days. Instead of going back into her room, Jane just… walked. She knew it was early. She knew she shouldn't be wondering the corridors at this time of the morning.

But she didn't especially have a choice.

Walking through the servant corridors, she occasionally dodged the people who had a right to be there. They were certainly looking at her oddly, but she ignored their questioning glances.

Soon, allowing for a mistakes margin, Jane found herself in the kitchens, at which point she made her way into the garden. Just as she was approaching the orchard, her eyes fixed on her feet, she walked into a seemingly overnight built brick wall.

"Are you going somewhere, Miss Eyre?"

"No sir,"

"Then why are you walking the gardens at four o'clock in the morning?"

"I needed some fresh air."

"At four o'clock?"

"Yes sir."

"And why are you awake?"

"I woke up early, sir."

"And you are not running away, Janet?"

"No sir." Jane looked up at Rochester as an accompaniment to her words. Memories and thoughts from the night before darkened her cheeks, and Mr. Rochester obviously assumed that she was lying. "I do not lie, sir."

"Of course you don't." He was being sarcastic, and she could not even look at him again. Not after her dream.

"Please sir, I need to go to Hay."

"And why do you need to go to Hay, at four o'clock?"

"Not now sir, but later. I need to post a letter."

"Give it to me." His voice was harsh, commanding, like when she had first arrived at Thornfeild. "I am sorry Janet, am I forgiven?"

"Yes sir."

"For everything?"

"For everything." And Jane Eyre placed the letter to her uncle iin her master's hand.

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**There it is, hope you enjoyed!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Right then, here we go. This was written at the end of a French test. Joy! (I got a D). And, I GOT 1983 JANE EYRE FOR CHRISTMAS!**

He needed to see her. And there she was, wandering the grounds at four in the morning, probably about to run away.

And she was holding a letter. A letter addressed to a man. 'John –, Esq., Madeira.' The second name of the man had smudged, and all there was was Madeira. Who did Janet know in Madeira?

Writing a letter to a man, as well? That was odd. There had to be some kind of close correspondence. And Jane had no family… so who was this man receiving his Janet's letters?

Slipping the letter into his dressing pocket, Rochester continued to stroll around the orchard. It was quite cold, but truly beautiful, and Jane was still walking, passing her time around the walls of the garden, while he stuck strictly to the middle.

But he couldn't just leave her out here. That letter may not contain anything. John – may not be real, it may be an intentional smudge, Jane was just too neat.

Rochester quickly tugged the letter out of his pocket, creasing it slightly. Just as his finger slipped under the seal, he saw Jane walking towards him.

"Sir?" her head was tilted ever so slightly to the side, her hand inclined- as though to take the letter. And thus did he hold it behind his back, reminding them both unavoidably of the ten pounds, occurring before this stain on their already unhealthy half-relationship that had existed, but was now breaking down.

"I apologise. Now please, go back inside. It's cold."

"I am not going to run away, sir."

"How can I be sure about that, Janet?"

"Do you not trust me?"

"Not a whit."

"Please, sir."

"Go inside, Jane."

"Please can I have my letter back, sir?"

"Who's it addressed to?" she gave no response, just held out her hand. Reluctantly, Rochester removed it from his pocket, and placed it into her hand. "Come, Jane." And she made her way over to the entrance of the orchard. Following her, Rochester attempted to approach the house, but stopped when he realised she wasn't following him.

"You are in your dressing-gown, sir."

"It is four o'clock in the morning."

"I am not running away, sir."

"You are out of the house at four o'clock in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

"You left the house through the servant's entrance."

"Yes, sir." She was being so calm, so collected. It was horrible. He wanted her to shout, to scream, to run away. He wanted her to be Jane Eyre, not some shallow replica. And why did he want this? He really couldn't say, and he certainly did not want to ponder it.

Jane sped up, to the point that she was practically running, and he finally felt that he had some kind of justification. A reason that he could chase her.

Very little encouragement was needed.

"JANE!" she continued to run, a slight limp becoming evident, and as she looked back to find him so close.

Her bad foot gave way, and she gave a cry of pain, and grabbed on to the first thing she could find. Twisting round so she could sit on the stile, she stole herself to look into Mr. Rochester's eyes. And he took the message that he should not approach her at this point. The girl that he once considered as his own looked down, and Rochester did not want to have to see her when she looked up. The guilt was once more sweeping over him, and he couldn't bear to do her any more harm. Turning round, Rochester headed back to Thornfeild hall, only to find it very awake for four o'clock. Following the screaming, the shouting, and the crashing, he found himself standing outside Miss Eyre's door, which was bolted shut, from the inside.

Knocking on the door, the screaming instantly stopped, and a not so peaceful quiet was radiating from the chamber. The doorknob was turned, and Alice Fairfax's head protruded through the gap between the door and the frame.

"Sorry sir, Miss Eyre seems to have run away."

"I know this, I just want to know why there seems to be the entire household occupying her chamber?" Mrs. Fairfax seemed to be lost for words, and Rochester took the opportunity to grab the handle. Pushing it slightly, his housekeeper moved out of the way, and then took a brisk walk through the open door, attempting to pretend that nothing special was happening in the room.

_**Change View**_

She was still sitting on the stile on Hay Lane, her head in her hands, tears splashing down onto her lap. She had never intended to run away, but there was no way that she could go back. She had no money, no food, nothing. Just the letter. And that was the only thing she could do. She had just enough to be able to send the letter, and that was essential. It had to be sent, it was the last thing she could possibly do. And she would send it. Standing up, she had a jolt of pain travel through her leg, but was capable of limping, and limping was what she did. By the time she reached the post office in Hay, she had no ability to walk any further, but just fell onto the little stool, leaning against the wall.

Pulling the letter out of her dress pocket, she attempted to put some weight onto the foot, but had to bite her tongue to stop herself crying out in pain. And thus did she almost hop up to the counter, and place the letter onto the desk.

"Please could I post this letter," and Jane placed the money on top of the post.

**Dada! Hope you like. **

**Now, I am going to tell you something very important. Something YOU MUST READ! And you must pay attention. **

**Whatever anybody tells you, you must remember this. You must never, _NEVER_ Forget To Be Awesome.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Well then, chapter eighteen. Woah, eighteen chapters, that's quite a bit... thanks to all who have been reading this -now it sounds like the story is ending. Don't worry, that is a far cry from the truth. Big stuff is approaching the walls of this fort, and the war of fiction is not yet lost, but nor won. And now I am talking gibberish... well, nothing new there!**

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The letter was sent. Soon, her uncle would know. And what would she do now? He thought she had run away, and she could not go back, even if she never intended to leave. And now she couldn't leave. It may take a while for the letter to get to Madeira, and then it would have to be received, read, and replied to. Only then could it get a chance to return. But she had to be here when it finally did.

Jane was just about to leave the post office, when she saw a man in a long, thick coat, entering through the doorway.

"Any letters for Richard Mason?" The old woman behind the desk began to shuffle through a thick pile of envelopes, her mouth moving silently, as she read out the names and addresses on each of the envelopes. Extracting one of the thicker envelopes, if not the thickest envelopes, it was passed over the desk, and taken in Mason's hand. Just as this was happening, Jane felt that staying any longer would be impolite, and was once more approaching the door. "Miss Eyre?"

This time, the said 'Miss Eyre's' hand was actually on the doorknob, and she was slightly annoyed when she was once more pulled back, but her curiosity was peaked, and she turned round, ad gave a slight curtsey, or more like an inclination of the head, to Mr. Mason.

"Did you know that you had an uncle, alive in Madeira?" Jane was so shocked, so amazed at what this almost-total stranger had asked her, that she almost reeled back, but simply tried to keep her face black as she nodded.

"Yes sir, do you know my uncle?"

"We are friends, yes," but this was said oddly. Not like he was ashamed of the friendship, or like he wanted to hide it, but rather as if he didn't feel that such… meagre details were required to the discussion. The subject of friends was brushed aside as quickly as it had come up. "Miss Eyre, what are you doing at Hay this early in the morning? It is…" and, taking out a pocket watch, he had a look at the time, "just gone six in the morning, and yet you are out of Thornfeild? Does Rochester know you are here?"

"Sorry sir, but I feel that where I am, and why I am there, at whichever time, is not in the interest of you, nor Mr. Rochester."

"Miss Eyre?"

"I know about your sister, sir." This blurted out of Jane's lips, and she had no idea why she was telling this man of her dealings with the man that she could no longer call her master.

"Ah…" quickly ripping open the letter in his hand, Mason extracted one of the envelopes, that seemed to be concealed within the larger one, and passed it on to the young governess. "Your uncle would like to see you. I am to be returning to Jamaica very shortly, but will be stopping off at Madeira to see him. It may be possible to arrange some transport."

"I would appreciate that, sir."

"Were you running- I apologise, Miss Eyre, but Mr. Rochester's informality is wont to rub off on those around him. But if you do not wish to return to the Hall, if you could only wait in the village for a short time, and I can arrange for your possessions to be returned to you."

"Please, I don't want Mr. Rochester to know that I am here." She could not explain why this was, but she couldn't bear to see him. She had made a resolution. She couldn't talk to him, see him. Never again. He had a wife.

"Alright. I will talk to the housekeeper."

"Mrs. Fairfax."

"Thank you. I expect to be back in about an hour."

"Thank you, sir."

_**Change View**_

"Mr. Mason is here to see you, sir." What? Mason? But Mason couldn't be… no. this was wrong. This could not happen.

"Rochester." The wretched man came in, giving a slight bow. Rochester returned this, attempting to keep up appearances. Attempting to trick himself, as well as Mason, that everything was fine.

"Mason. What do I owe to this meeting?" He can't want to see his sister, not after what happened last time…

"I have recovered sufficiently from my injury, and would like to see my sister for one last time before I return."

"I do not think that is wise, Richard. She is not…"

"I must see her." He was demanding it. He was standing up for himself. This, alone, was enough for Rochester to almost let him… but he couldn't. He could not do that.

"Dick," his voice was slightly stern, willing Mason to bend to his will once more.

"Edward, please." And there was no point saying any more. There was no point attempting to convince the dratted man to the contrary. The only reason he kept up any kind of contact with the man was this affection, and now it was to be the death of him.

He was still standing and, moving over to the door, he wrenched it open. His anger was evident, and there was no point trying to conceal it. He had lost everything that morning, and now all he could do was lose the closest thing he had had to a friendship for many a year. At that thought, he almost laughed. What an odd friendship it had been! Walking up the staircase, down a corridor, and up another staircase, he stopped outside Miss Eyre's door, and waited. Mason passed him, and opened the door to the third floor. Once he had passed through it, the door slammed shut behind him, but it was easy to hear what was going on. He was going up there by himself!

Doors could be heard to be opening, and then more walking, and then silence. Finally, hurried footsteps, and the door was ripped open. "Where—?" but the master only stepped aside, revealing the door to Miss Eyre's chamber. Confusion was etched upon the man's features, but Rochester would not meet Mason's eye. Opening the door slowly –he was scared as to what he would see- Mason stepped into the room, and stopped, just inside the doorway. Rochester, not making a sound, walked along the hallway, and into his own room. He bolted the door, and fell down into a chair by the window. It had been a long day already, and the clock only read seven o'clock.

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**There, please forgive me for my little cliff hanger. There was one last chapter too, right...? Well, oops. I am just putting it off. I knew I was going to do this so long ago, and yet I still haven't! Typical! Well, please review, and DFTBA!**


	19. Chapter 19

"Mr. Mason?" Jane was standing there, where they had arranged to meet, but she could just make out the form of Richard Mason, staggering towards her.

"I cannot-cannot accompany you." He practically stuttered. But you still can go. I just need to t-tell you… your uncle-he-he's d-dying. And he staggered past Jane, towards the village tavern, before thinking better of it, and pulling out a pocket book. It is not advisable that you do travel to Madeira." Jane's world was crashing down around her, and it was only out of lick that she managed to take the slip of paper out of Mason's hand, and then he was gone.

Her uncle was dying, dying to such an extent that he wouldn't be alive by the time she reached him. She had family, be it small, and yet it was slipping away, like sand in an egg timer. And Mr. Mason had not been prepared to tell her, so what had changed?

_Change View_

She was dead. Jane was going to who knows where, and for no reason, now that a knife was stained with his late wife's blood. Unbolting the door, Rochester slowly made his way to The Room. His hand reached the handle, and felt the stress that it had held back in the past few hours, the last few days, the last few months.

Since Jane had arrived, he had only stepped into the room two times. It could have been worse. He could have done more. But he had done enough. The damage had been done. It was there, and it would always stand between them.

He wasn't going to go in there. He wasn't going to look at her, polluting such a space. And so he walked. He didn't pay attention. He just walked. He walked past his housekeeper. Past the staccato bursts of whispering servants. Past the doors of the house. He just walked. Down the road, to where a horse had been bewitched, and a man enchanted. Back to where he had first met Miss Eyre.

Sitting down on the stile, he watched. His head was turned in the direction of Hay, his eyes losing focus, as he tried to imagine Jane walking down the path, towards him.

And he did.

He saw an elf. His elf. The small figure, strolling towards the place of their first meeting. She was a figment of his imagination, and she was ignoring him. Even he knew he wasn't worth her notice.

So he watched. He watched her as she strolled past, in the direction of Thornfeild.

Standing up, Fairfax Rochester followed slowly behind, and watched, as the imaginary Jane Eyre moved on, oblivious.

And then, subito, she stopped, just as a full view of Thornfeild could be seen through the surrounding trees. And she just stood there, paying no attention to anything around her. She looked odd, unconscious, almost… possessed. She could see the hall, but was totally oblivious to anything around her. Rochester stood behind her, watching her as she watched Thornfeild.

"Oh, sir."

"…Jane." His voice cracked, and he had only whispered, his throat not yet prepared to speak. But it was enough. Jane span round, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "You didn't run away." There was nothing else to say. Just 'you didn't run away'. The simplest thing he could have said.

"Mr. Mason knows my uncle." Uncle? "I was going to go to Madeira." Madeira! "Mr. Mason wasn't -isn't- going to come." Does she not know about Bertha? "I am not going to Madeira."

"You have an uncle?"

"Yes sir." Her eyes dropped to her feet.

"You are not going to him?" this is a very odd hallucination. "Sprite!"

"Sir?"

"You are a sprite! A fairy! An elf!" he could see panic in her eyes. It was clear, and he could tease her no more. So he stood next to her, took her arm, and walked. She was so solid, so real, but he never could know if she was real. He never could know if he was sane. "Am I mad, Jane Eyre?"

Jane blanched, froze, and tried to pull her arm out of her master's grip. He turned his eyes towards the struggling sprite at his side, questions lining his eyes.

"No, sir." Jane said, oh so very quietly. "You are not mad."

"So why do I see you?"

"Because there is nobody else to see."

"Are you back then?"

"I have no where else to go." She muttered. "I did not intend to run away, only to post a letter, and I must be in a position to accept it." he did not ask who the letter was to, and he did not ask why she was up so early, he didn't ask anything. He was silent, and they walked, totally calm almost with the express purpose of contrasting the panic they neither of they neglected inside.

"She is dead." Jane stopped suddenly. "Mason has to attend the funeral." Rochester felt Jane's arm slipping out of his own, hearing her footsteps pounding of the ground behind him. Waiting a few seconds, he calculated his response, and then span round and followed her, easily equalling the distance carried. Catching her hand, Rochester pulled Jane back, sitting her down in the middle of the road, and dropping down next to her.

"I am sorry I have to so this, but I have to be careful." By now, Jane had given up, and just looked down, rather than meeting her master's eyes.

"At some time this morning, my wife managed to escape the care of Grace Poole, and came down the stairs into your room. In here, she ransacked all your possessions, before destroying almost everything you own. She then proceeded to stab herself, and there she lays still." Jane just sat there, blinked, and then attempted to stand up. Once this was achieved, she straightened her dress, and walked calmly in the direction of Thornfeild. Rochester could only tell she was affected by a slight stumble, and an almost inaudible sob.

Edward Fairfax Rochester was found an hour later, lying in the middle of the road, when a carriage almost ran him over.

_Change View_

Jane did not know why she was running, but she knew it was her only option. She could hear behind her the pounding of Mr. Rochester's footsteps, and knew that there was no point in continuing, but still did she run, until she felt her hand being tugged, and slowed down, wishing she could be anywhere but standing on this road, a murderer of a master on her heels. A murder who she loved, despite everything. She couldn't believe it of him, and yet she could not believe anything else. Right now, it was fundamental to everything that she kept on telling herself 'he killed her', continually wishing that she could be anywhere but here. Anywhere but the middle of Hay Lane, listening to everything her master explaining why he wasn't a murderer, all the while thinking 'why didn't I advertise?'

And when he had finished talking, she walked. She did not look where she was walking, but she went in that direction. It was not long before Thornfeild was before her, but she did not stop. Not thinking, she walked up to the leads, staring down at the land that had once been a place she called home, so long ago. Then, going back down into the corridor, Jane blinked until she found that she could actually see. Proceeding to the room which she knew to be Bertha's. Or at least had been. Passing through the chamber where Mr. Mason had been stabbed, bitten and almost killed, Jane Eyre turned the handle into the room where she had been once before, and found it unlocked, unguarded, and unoccupied.

The key was in the lock, obviously turned in a hurry, and she bolted it behind her, fingering the key, weighing it in her hand. So much power could be held in this one key, and that little key almost…. Knew it. It had a weight to it that passed its mass, something not so much physical as spiritual, and throwing it out of the window would do nothing, because power would still be held in that little chunk of cold, hard, unforgiving metal.

Dropping it, it clanged against the floor, spinning and then slowing, landing in a puddle of light that shone through the glazed window.

There was a decanter of… some liquid Jane was not quite capable of identifying, most probably port, sat by the chair, and a tray of food, stone cold and congealed at the bottom of the bowl. Bertha Rochester's last meal? The last thing that passed her lips before the knife which passed through her heart? Could something of such significance really stir up so little in a Christian's heart? It felt improper, to stand in a dead woman's room, scorning her manner of living, laughing at her insanity, examining her life as though it was some kind of twisted experiment. It shouldn't be done, and yet she was here, standing in the room of a woman once mad, now deceased, doing it anyway.

So she sat down. The room had an odd smell about it, an alcoholic tang, disguised with the stink of unwashed flesh, frightfully familiar after the days of Lowood.

It wasn't only cold, but foreboding. Despite its size, it wasn't well lit. The shadows were overpowering the light, and the shadows were of the blackest kind.

_Change View_

By the time the passing carriage had woken Mr. Rochester up, he knew what he was going to do. A wife, who very few people knew existed, had just died. It was bad, but people die all the time. It's what people do. Bertha had dies a long time ago. People would want to know who this dead woman was, and the secret would come out. His history would be out there. The scandal would stand fresh in the gossip of the Ton for some time, but London was so far from here. All society was useless at this distance. He could just live in Thornfeild, travel about a bit. It shouldn't be hard, just as long as Jane stayed. So that was all he had to do, make sure Jane stayed at Thornfeild.

Standing up, Rochester dusted himself off while attempting to find his bearings. He hadn't really been paying attention to what had been going on, and he had to search the skyline for some telltale battlements before he was sure which way to go. When he came close enough to see the house clearly, he realised there was a light shining in the widow of Bertha Rochester.

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**Sorry about how bad this is, and how it is only going to get worse, but I am so bored of this story. And if you were expecting a happy ending, so was I.**

_**DFTBA**_

_**may your life not end in...**_


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